


A new tomorrow

by hisquartermaster



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisquartermaster/pseuds/hisquartermaster
Summary: It was the most abstract feeling, being in Bergamo again.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Bergamo. Night.

**Author's Note:**

> Movie-verse what if.
> 
> My love letter to Bergamo and Crema because I miss them.
> 
> Title taken from Raf's "Self Control", nobody can tell me Elio wasn't listening to it on loop on the first anniversary of Bergamo.
> 
> As always, wouldn't happen without Momo's help.

It was the most abstract feeling, being in Bergamo again. 

His flight from Ciampino landed in Orio al Serio which he never visited before, as being a student he could not afford another flight and chose the train instead, so the weird feeling started only once he got off the shuttle bus in Piazza Marconi, just by the old railway station. At this time of the night, it was mostly empty, occasional passers-by were tipsy youths and tired looking gastronomy workers, either coming back from their shift or heading to work. Most of the other passengers from his flight chose the Milano shuttle and it seemed to be the norm - the bus was empty enough that the local taxi drivers evidently knew not to bother waiting for it and the few passengers somehow dispersed as he was taking in the familiar view.

He looked at the clock on the railway station front. It was most definitely too late for any bus to be going directly to Citta Alta. Well, it was not like he had any serious luggage to speak of, just a duffel bag, stuffed with summer clothes, he could walk to the funicular and wait there for the first morning train to the old town, just in time to catch the sunrise.

The main street leading up to the funicular station was eerie to him, especially since it was completely empty at this time of the night, just before dawn; it seemed that not much has changed in the last seven years. He remembered some of the restaurants, shops. In the morning, the reality of new faces taking place of the ones he remembered would settle in, but now, it was easy to imagine that the coffee in the little bar on the left was still served by the waitress who looked like Molly Ringwald and the newsstand was operated by the super friendly guy with the knowing, teasing grin. There were many new places though, americanized and looking like they could exist in any place in the world and not in this idealised fairytale place he created in his own mind in the last couple of years. 

As he passed Porta Nuova and kept going up the main street, he decided that the Monument to the Partisan was even creepier when one was walking completely alone and had no one to make (irreverent and more than slightly sacrilegious, considering the subject) jokes about the artistic merits of the statue. The very thought made him come to the conclusion that he would try and find time to visit Carrara - maybe alone he would be able to actually appreciate the art and not his companion. After all, 5 days meant a lot of time for actual sightseeing and when one was unaccompanied, he would have to find something to do, other than searching for the ghosts in the narrow streets. 

The funicular station was predictably empty; he was alone in the lower cabin of the train, choosing to avoid the company of the driver, who was too much of an Italian guy stereotype for him to bear at that moment. Honestly, there was only one person, whose company would not destroy the moment and that person was no longer watching Bergamo sunrises with him.

The rose-pink light of dawn was spreading all over the Citta Bassa, as the trolley began to ascend. Even faced with this beauty below him, he still felt painfully nervous - would his visit destroy the precious memories he had of those ancient streets? Was the memory of the happiness going to be diminished by reality? 

He was actually too afraid to try to book a room in the same hotel where they lived before and so, when he got off the station, instead of going towards the Gombito, he turned into one of the streets leading down towards the walls, though the little gelateria on the corner. This alone was enough to make his heart clench in his chest, as he remembered one particular evening when he insisted on tasting all the flavours and promptly giving up when he saw the actual size of the servings. He also remembered the taste of apricot gelato, licked from his lover’s lips the very same evening in their room, overlooking Via Gombito.

The sleepy receptionist didn’t try to hide her surprise neither at a tourist coming in so early, nor at the fact that he actually spoke Italian, quickly fixing him a very early breakfast consisting of an espresso and a cornetto, leaving it along the fresh towels and toiletries in his room. Her slightly maternal attitude reminded him of Mafalda, which brought another wave of longing for that particular summer. 

An hour into his trip to Bergamo and he was already questioning whether it was actually a good idea to exorcise his demons this particular way. He was no longer sure he would be strong enough to deal with the main point of this trip - creating new memories so the old ones would lose their hold on him. 

Easier said than done, was his last conscious thought as he fell asleep. Even the pillows smelled of chamomile, just like the ones in Elio’s room. 


	2. Bergamo. Noon.

It was almost noon when Oliver finally woke up.

The noises from the street below were much quieter than outside of the apartment where he stayed while in Rome, but still loud enough to make him decide that there was no chance of falling asleep again.

A quick shower later, he discovered that he missed the hours when one could actually eat something and so he decided to start his trip down memory lane. He would just grab something once the restaurants opened again.

The first stop on his walk was the hardest.

Agnello d’Oro looked exactly as it did before. The window to their room, overlooking via Gombito was slightly open, but the blinds were closed, just like Elio had liked it the most on those hot days they had spent there, as this way they could just walk around the room naked, unseen by the outside world. It was a striking feeling, to stand in the middle of a street, so close to the place where he once was the happiest in his life, yet able only to look from the outside, like a spectator who once had played the main role and now was forever banished to just watch.

In a way, that was the way he always felt - a mere spectator of his own life. Save for those few weeks in the summer of 1983, with Elio’s eyes somehow always on him.

He finally managed to move, but only once he noticed that the elderly barber who decided to spend his break smoking a cigarette on the doorstep of his hole in the wall shop started looking at him judgmentally. He wasn’t sure if it was the same guy they always saw going to work when they were sharing the last spliff before sleep, way later into the morning that they should but still way too early for anyone to need a barbershop open.

The Angelo Mai library looked exactly as it did when they were drunkenly coming back to the hotel on their last night and it didn’t exactly help his mood. He could remember exactly how in love he had felt then, how adored and how scared at the same time. They had spent endless hours in Piazza Vecchia, during the breaks in his research which they had been spending sitting in the small cafe by the Torquato Tasso statue, with Elio reciting his poems...

 _Forse, se tu gustassi anco una volta  
_ _La millesima parte de la gioie  
_ _Che gusta un cor amato riamando,  
_ _Diresti, ripentita, sospirando:_  
 _Perduto è tutto il tempo  
_ _Che in amar non si spende._

Who could have known how right Tasso was, he thought, sitting down by the statue, to verify whether the espressos in Caffé del Tasso were still as good without Elio as they had been with him.

Having decided that yes, the coffee was magnificent, Elio or no Elio, he continued his nostalgic journey towards the back courtyard of Santa Maria Maggiore, turning into the small passage by Fontanone Visconteo, just short of what he called in his mind “their wall”. He was not ready to face it and he was not going to fool himself into thinking otherwise. In a way, it was funny, how in a magical town like Bergamo, full of spectacular architecture, just across the most amazing church he had ever seen, the most beautiful place to him was the ordinary, grey plaster wall.

He turned into the Via Arena and as soon as he could see the medieval marble lions on the porch he stopped in the middle of the street. Either he finally went mad or there, sitting on the step by the lion’s hind leg was none other than Elio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry used in the chapter is fragment of "Aminata", a play by the most famous bergamasque poet, Torquato Tasso whose statue overlooks the cafe visited by Oliver. 
> 
> Here is the fragment translated by Malcolm Hayword:
> 
> Thus if just once you tasted  
> the thousandth part of joy's flavor,  
> savor from a loving and beloved heart,  
> repentently you'd say:  
> "Lost is all that time  
> I didn't spend in love!"


End file.
